Rearrange Me Till I'm Sane
by SparkleHorse
Summary: Carly and Sam try to adjust to life after the end of iCarly. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

She's inspecting herself in the mirror again, listing what she thinks is wrong with her. She thinks her face is too square; people often ask her if she's part Asian because of the shape of her face and the almond cast of her eyes. She thinks her mouth is too big, her body too thin, her breasts too small, her skin too pale. All the things she thinks are flaws are the things I think make her perfect.

She runs those pale, delicate fingers of hers through hair so dark a brown that it's easy to mistake for black at first glance. She picks the brush up off her desk and messes with the angle and parting of her hair.

"I like it when you part it on the right," I say. I'm in the beanbag on her bedroom floor, finishing off a fried chicken leg.

"Do you?" she says quietly, her reflection looking back. Our eyes meet in the mirror amid the reflections of afternoon shadows.

"Yeah. I like the way you kind of let your hair fall over your one eye. Looks mysterious."

"Hmm," she murmurs, looking down at the pens and bits of paper scattered on her desk.

"It makes you look like a rock star," I say.

Her shoulders shake a little in what I guess is a silent laugh. I roll what's left of the chicken leg up in a napkin and set it aside.

"Like this," I say, standing, wiping my fingers off, moving to her. My heart starts pumping faster now, like it always does when I get close to her. She turns to face me with dark eyes so open and honest that they break my heart.

"Don't get chicken fat in my hair," she says, but there's the hint of a smile on her face, and I know she is just teasing me. I run my fingers along her hair, sweeping it to one side, fixing it to hang over that one eye, trying to control my breathing and the tremors in my hand. I am sick with these distant little touches that skirt along the edge of contact; I want full contact. I want to lay my body against Carly Shay's. I want to wrap around her and hold her and press against her so tightly that we absorb into each other.

Instead I let my hand fall, and step back. "There," I say.

She bites her lower lip and turns to check herself in the mirror. The spills like a dark curtain over one eye and onto her shoulders. "Rock and roll," she says softly.

"I like it like that," I say. I let my hand fall on her shoulder. I grasp tightly on the epaulet of bone under my palm. "What if I play guitar and you start singing?" Most people don't know that she can sing. It's not a conventional voice, but to me it is honest and beautiful.

One corner of her mouth twists upward in an attempt at a smile, but quickly falls back down. It's been so hard to get a real smile out of her ever since the end of iCarly. "Sam, you can't even play guitar."

"I could learn. Even if it means work, and effort, and junk." I would, too, if it would make her feel better.

She just shakes her head with that half-smile on her face.

"I could make you look all indie rock," I continue. "Ditch these puffy sleeved blouses and start wearing baby doll T-shirts. Keep the short skirts, but stop wearing those high boots. You gotta show off your legs. Wear some low top Chucks instead; like, some red or pink or orange ones."

"But my legs are pasty sticks."

"Your legs are awesome. You ought to show them off."

She looks in the mirror as if she's trying to imagine herself in different clothes. I glance at myself, standing beside her, in my typical long-sleeved T-shirt and cut off cargo pants. I love my style - it's comfortable for me, but it just wouldn't work on Carly. She needs something more cutesie, more girly. She looks like a real life anime character - she needs to be dolled up. Actually, I would love her no matter what she wore, but the clothes she usually wears don't show off enough of her body; and since I can't lay against that body and kiss every inch of it, I'd at least like to see more of it sometimes.

"Maybe I will," she whispers as she breaks away from the mirror, turning to face me. "Did you finish your chicken?"

"Um, yeah."

She half-smiles, says, "Come on, let's finish our homework."

* * *

Two days later and I'm laying in the bathtub, in my own wet dirt, in water that's long since gone tepid, searching my legs for stray hairs that I missed when I Nair'ed them and shaving them away with my special pink razor when I find them. I love the smooth feel when my legs are freshly waxed and shaved, but I keep the razor from straying too high up. No, I don't shave that area; I like the silky blond hair I have down there, even if no one else ever sees it.

I finish, then run some more hot water and lay back to relax. I haven't been to Carly's since that night, and it hurts. I just don't know what to do when I'm at home, or anytime she's not around, really, but she's so lost herself these days that it hurts doubly.

It's all because of what happened to Mrs. Benson. For all her obsession with safety, nothing could stop that oversized pickup truck from flattening her car in the intersection just down the road from Bushwell a few months ago. Turned out to be some lumberjack from Aberdeen who'd come up to Seattle to blow his paycheck on a weekend of booze and partying. Poor, crazy old Mrs. Benson probably never even knew what hit her.

Freddie's dad came up for the funeral, then took him back to Los Angeles to live with him. It was that simple. It was heartbreaking to watch Freddie and Carly break down and cling to each other on the sidewalk outside of Bushwell, just before he got into his dad's car and rode out of our lives. Even I cried a bit that night after the little nub had left.

We tried to keep the show going, but we went through 4 different tech producers in the first month - that kid Jeremy first, then some of Freddie's other AV Club buddies. The quality of the show immediately went downhill; there was a backlash by the fans and people stopped watching, and I could tell Carly's heart wasn't in it anymore. The last show barely had a couple thousand viewers, and ended early when the tech guy's camera shorted out.

My thoughts return to the present when I hear the ringtone on my phone going off. I reach down toward the pile of clothes beside the bathtub and dig my phone out of my pants pocket.

"Hey," Carly says on the other end.

"What's up, Carly girl?"

She hesitates a second before answering. "I just wanted to talk to someone."

I sit up. "What about?"

"Oh, I'm not even sure. I was just listening to the radio, and all the songs made me feel a way I haven't felt in a while. Like, there's stuff going on the in the world, and I could be a part of it. You know what I mean?"

"I actually do," I say. "Like you're connected to the world, but still kind of lonely."

I can hear her sighing. "Would you want to meet me at the Groovie Smoothie in a few minutes?"

I glance at the clock hanging above the sink. The Groovie Smoothie closes in about an hour. "I'd love to," I say.

I quickly blow dry my hair, get dressed, and grab the keys to my old pickup. I drive the few blocks and park. She's already waiting for me when I walk inside, sitting at a table by the window. The first thing I notice is the pale length of her legs, because she is wearing a short skirt and some red, low top Chucks. She's wearing a faded red, tight fitting T-shirt. She appears to be staring off into space as she sucks on her straw, but then she glances over, sees me, smiles beneath that curtain of dark hair, and waves a cup at me to let me know she already got my smoothie.

I sit across from her, take my smoothie. "Thanks," I say. "You're looking very indie rock tonight."

She smiles shyly. "I feel so self conscious."

"Just give it time. You look cute, like you rode over here on an old 60s bicycle, with a Care Bears lunchbox."

I get that half smile from her again. "Dressing different doesn't change how I feel inside."

I really don't know how to reply to that, so we sip our smoothies in silence for a few minutes.

"Thanks for helping me with my project the other night," I finally say.

"Oh, no problem. I was glad you came over." She plays with her hair for a minute. "I'm sorry, you know?"

"For what?" I ask, genuinely mystified.

"I just... feel like I've been neglecting you ever since the show ended."

It feels like something has thawed inside of me and is now flowing warmly within, but I just shrug and say, "It's been a rough time for everyone, I guess."

"Yeah, but..." The tip of her tongue darts out, swipes a drop of smoothie from her lower lip. She doesn't have to finish the thought - I know we haven't spent as much time together since the show ended. She bends her straw and changes course. "Let's do something this weekend. Just you and me."

"I'd like that," I say. "What do you have in mind?"

"Just hang out, I guess. I maybe you could think of something?"

I take a sip of smoothie, thinking of all the things I'd like to do. "I'll get back to you on that. But yeah, definitely, let's do something."

We finish our smoothies and go outside, where I enjoy the view of her long legs and the trim fit of her T-shirt. She really looks cute in those clothes.

We stand on the sidewalk, looking at Bushwell standing tall and lit up across the street, neither of us moving or talking, just feeling the cool wind wash over us. And as much as I wouldn't mind standing here silently with her all night long, I do have to get back home soon..

"I guess I'll see you in school tomorrow," I say.

She turns abruptly, clumsily, and throws her arms around me. I'm in shock for a second, but I quickly pull her closer. Her body is all sharp angles and long planes and warmth. She feels so fragile under my arms; not soft, but delicate like a glass figurine. She smells of lavender and vanilla soap.

"Thanks for everything, Sam," she murmurs into my ear. "For being my friend and all."

I say nothing, just squeeze her tighter in reply. She lets her forehead rest against my shoulder for a minute, then raises up, smiling.

"See you in school tomorrow, then," she says.

She hurries across the street, her pale legs ghostly in the dim light of the street lamps.

So I drive back home, shifting gears and cranking up the radio, in love with Carly and the lights of the city, the gas stations and video stores and burger joints that line the highway. The music is flowing out my window and the wind is flowing in, and I sing along; and this love - of Carly and music and the city - it feels like it all springs from the same source, somewhere sacred inside me.

I don't know how I'll ever get to sleep tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

I hate coming home from school. It always smells of cat piss, cigarette smoke, stale beer, last night's TV dinner. If my mom isn't on a "date," she'll be in her pajamas still, watching one of those trashy talk shows that my own life would probably be if I had never met Carly. Even back in elementary school I hated getting off the bus in the afternoons and walking through that door. Now that I have my truck, I usually just drive aimlessly in the afternoons if I'm not going over to Carly's.

The first time I went over to Carly's apartment after school, way back in 3rd grade, was like stumbling into a whole new world you never knew existed - a world where people are not trying to screw you over or abuse you, where they accept you and just care about you despite your flaws, despite the criminals and white trash in your family. At home I had to deal with a mother who never cooked; I made grilled cheese sandwiches or cereal for dinner every day in 1st and 2nd grade. Going over to Carly's house that afternoon in 3rd grade was the first color and wonder and beauty in my life.

And when you get something beautiful in your life, you'll do anything to hang onto it.

That's why I've never told Carly how I really feel, even though sitting inches from her in the lunchroom today was unbearable. It made me sick at my stomach with the desire to lean slightly over and kiss that pale skin on her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

So I drive around on this sunny afternoon, past the junkyards and liquor stores out on the east side of town, thinkng about the beautiful creature named Carly Shay who seems so lost lately. For the past two days at school, she's worn these cutesy little western shirts and short skirts. It's like she looked up 'indie fashion' on the Internet, and it freaks me out some that she's changed her style just because I casually mentioned something the other day. It makes me think of that time I convinced her I wanted to be more girly so I could go out with that guy Pete. That was just a ploy to get closer to her, though; I broke up with that guy two days later, and Carly didn't even notice that I kept dressing girly for another week. I don't mind saying that I've always followed her lead; I would be a juvenile delinquent if it wasn't for her, I just know it. She's the only person I'd follow, but now it seems like she's handed the reins over to me and expects me to lead, and I don't know where to take us.

The sun is blinding me and giving me a headache, so I turn my truck around in the parking lot of a closed up laundromat, and drive back through some quiet, tree lined neighborhoods. My beat up old truck looks out of place on these streets, too noisy as I shift gears. There's no air conditioning, so my hair sticks to my forehead and beads of sweat roll down my sides under my shirt.

All this driving and thinking is making my stomach rumble, so I stop at this dusty little liquor store on the edge of the ghetto, the kind of place that sells crack pipes on the front counter, but it's the only place on this side of town where I can get ham jerky. I pay the man, take my pack of ham jerky outside and tear it open on the sidewalk. I'm munching on the first piece and walking back to my truck when my phone rings.

"Carly," I answer.

"What are you doing?"

"Gettin' my grub on."

She laughs a little. "Can you come over?"

"Sure. What's going on over there?"

"Uh, just a whole lot of nothing. But come over anyway. I need someone to be bored with."

"Alright," I say as I settle into my front seat and crank the engine. "Be over in a few minutes."

She opens the door for me when I get over there, wearing this little blue slip dress that shows off her long legs, and a black cardigan.

"Come on in. Girly Cow is about to start."

"I brought ham," I say, holding up my bag.

Her face lights up. "Ooh! In jerky form."

I love how every time she says something witty or ironic or light hearted, a second or two later this little smile escapes, like she's unable to keep a straight face. I don't even know if she knows she's doing it, but it's cute every time. It makes me wonder about the people who used to leave nasty comments on the iCarly message board saying that she wasn't funny or had no personality. Those people must lead such barren lives not to be able to see how her every gesture is suffused with good humor and joy.

I pass her a wad of jerky as we sit on the couch. She plops on the far end away from me, and for a moment I panic at her distance, but then she casually swings her feet up, lays back, and drops her legs over mine. The warmth of her bare calves seeps through my pants. But she doesn't wink at me or smile or do anything flirty, just turns her attention to the TV.

It's a Girly Cow we've seen a million times, but I don't care. I rest my hands on her knees and pretend to watch the show. When it's over she sits up, withdrawing the contact, swinging her feet back to the floor and gives me that half smile.

"Did you think about what you want to do this weekend?" she asks.

"Hmm. You want to hang out in the park? It's supposed to be sunny and warm all weekend. Might be nice to be outdoors."

"Sounds cool to me," she says, checking the time on her phone. She's been doing that for the last ten minutes.

"You expecting a call?" I ask.

"Yes, actually. That's kind of why I asked you to come over tonight. Freddy's supposed to call here tonight."

"Yay," I say with my most sarcastic tone.

She rolls her eyes. "_Sam._"

I laugh at her. "Nah, it'll be kind of nice to hear from the little nub."

We sit around watching TV and making fun of the commercials, and about ten minutes later Carly's phone rings. She puts him on speaker phone.

"Hey, Fredwad."

"Puckett," he answers back, sounding so distant.

"How goes it down south?"

"It's kind of cool down here...."

We talk for about 30 minutes. Actually, Carly and Freddie do most of the talking; him telling us about his new school and how their AV club has it's own dedicated room, and Carly updating him on people and things around our school, and how Lewbert finally got his wart removed. I listen mostly, interjecting mild insults here or there.

"Well, guys," he finally says around 8, "it was good to hear your voices again. Even your's, Sam."

"You, too, kiddo."

"Bye, guys."

"Be chillin,' not illin.'"

"Bye, Freddie," Carly says. She flips her phone closed.

"That was nice," she says.

"Yeah," I say softly.

I don't realize I'm letting my feelings show, but she peers at me, sees some look on my face, asks me, "What is it?"

I shake my head. "I just wonder if we'll ever hear from him again."

"Why would you say something like that?"

"Because he's a thousand miles away and living a new life now."

"So? You think he'll forget his old friends?"

I shrug. "People always drift apart."

"Do they?"

"Sure. If they don't have anything to keep them together, then yeah. There has to be some reason for them to stay in each other's lives. Otherwise it's just natural to drift."

"Oh," she says, barely above a whisper. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at the floor.

She just stares quietly at the TV and doesn't say much the rest of the night, but when I leave to go home, she walks me to the door and clutches me in a hug when I turn to say bye. She hangs on like she's afraid her supply of hugs is running out, and I don't have the words to reassure her otherwise, so I just squeeze back as hard as I can and hope that tells her the things I can't say with words.

* * *

At one in the morning I'm still awake, laying in my bed and staring at the dark ceiling, regretting my words from earlier, no matter how true they are. I call Carly.

"Hey," she answers. She sounds alert, like she hasn't been sleeping either.

"Let's go to the park tomorrow, right after school," I say.

"Okay."

"I'll drive us. We'll stop and get smoothies and go right to the park and hang out till nightfall."

"Okay."

I bite my lip. Silence.

"What reasons?" she finally says.

"I just don't want to wait until Saturday."

"No, I mean... What you were talking about earlier. What reasons? What sorts of things would keep people together?"

"Oh. I guess... whatever things the world puts out there. Being family, being neighbors, working on something together. Whatever."

"Oh, so like... this external stuff that people really have no control over just kind of forces them to stay together."

"I guess."

"But can't they have a choice?" She sounds breathless. "Can't they choose to stay part of each other's lives for no other reason than that they care about each other? Even if there's not much in common? Can't they just love each other and stay together even when everything else around them is changing?"

There is a long stretch of silence.

"Can't that be enough?" I swear I can hear her breaking on the other end.

"They can always try," I say.


	3. Chapter 3

I meet her by her locker on Friday morning. She smiles when she sees me. She's wearing this little brown western shirt, boot cut jeans, and her red chucks.

"I like that shirt on you," I say.

She looks down at it, as if she hadn't noticed what she had on. "Oh, thanks."

"So.... This afternoon?"

"Yeah, I wanted to ask you something about that," she says, taking her textbook out of the locker and closing the door. She looks around the hallway to make sure no one can overhear us, and steps closer to me. "Can you talk to Rip Off Rodney about... getting some weed?"

"Whoa! You sure you want to do that?"

She shrugs, bites her lower lip. "Special occasion."

"Yeah, I'll ask him."

She smiles at me, says, "See you at three," and heads to class.

"I can't wait," I mumble to myself after she's gone and I'm standing alone in the hallway.

* * *

It's no problem scoring a nickel bag from Rip Off Rodney at lunchtime, but this whole thing has me weirded out. Carly has always been vaguely anti-drug; not like in a way that drug users are scum - she knows I smoke it sometimes, and tried it with me once on the roof of Bushwell last summer - but just in that it wasn't something she wanted complicating her life. So I'm taken aback by her actually wanting to smoke it up this afternoon. Part of me is giddy, looking forward to it, knowing how fun it will be to get high with the girl I love; but the other part of me is concerned that with the way she is floundering right now, looking for whatever she needs in her life to replace iCarly, that this might lead to something more dangerous.

Whatever. I somehow make it through the day.

She's waiting for me by the front doors at 3 o'clock. There's a question on her face.

"I got it," I tell her.

"Cool."

"The coolest."

She follows me out to the parking lot. Her pale skin shines in the bright sunlight that's reflecting off the concrete. We climb into my truck. She slings her book bag into the floorboard and uses it as a footrest, pulls the seat belt across her waist, then leans forward and plays with the little plastic pig hanging from my rearview mirror as I pull us out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

Even with the stop to get smoothies it's a short trip over to the park by the Eastwood Estates. It's a fancy neighborhood; the cops keep the gang members and hobos away, but won't bother two teenage girls wandering around the park.

"I like your little piggie," she says as I park the truck under a giant oak tree that grows at the edge of the parking lot. She's swatting the pig back and forth, letting it swing from my mirror.

I chuckle at her. "How come you don't wear your Flying V necklace anymore?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. It seems kind of.. heavy metal."

That explanation doesn't really make much sense to me, but I let it go, and dig around in my door compartment for a lighter. I find my dad's old Zippo, and remind myself to take better care of it, to keep it close because I don't ever want to lose it.

I lock up the truck and we walk out into the grassy field area of the park where the college kids come to play their frisbee tournaments on weekends. At this time of day there's just a few old people walking dogs and some middle aged women power walking along the trails. I lead us across the field toward a tangled copse of young pine trees growing on the far end. Carly shuffles along behind me, hands in her jeans pockets, her arms glowing white in the sun.

We get to the woods and I turn to scan the park and make sure no one can see us going in. The nearest people are a group of Mexican kids playing soccer on the far end of the field.

"Lead the way," Carly urges.

I push aside some vines, and we wade into the brush, our footsteps silenced by the thick layers of pine needles on the ground. I lead us in a few feet until we find a clear spot where we can both stand.

There is nothing particularly romantic or glamorous about smoking the weed. I already have a bowl packed in my little metal pipe, the one with the Grateful Dead skull painted on the stem. I light it up and take in a lungfull of the spicy smoke.

I pass it to Carly, but she has trouble inhaling the smoke.

"Just breathe it in, don't try to swallow," I advise her. She had this same problem before when we smoked on the roof of her building.

"Ugh, I just can't make it go down," she complains. "Maybe you can do what you did last time. What's it called? Machine gunning?"

"Shotgunning." I laugh. "You're such a square," I tease her. "Besides, that doesn't really work with a pipe; just joints."

"Oh."

Then I suddenly realize what this would entail.

"Here, try this," I say. I take the pipe from her and take a hit, but I hold the smoke in my mouth instead of inhaling. I grab her shoulders and position her in front of me, and lean in. Anyone watching us would think it looks like I'm leaning in to kiss her, but she doesn't pull back. I put my lips millimeters from hers and blow in slowly, the smoke shooting in a thin, steady stream from my mouth to hers, forcing itself into her. I feel her shoulders rise under my hands as she breathes in and her lungs expand.

I pull away. "Hold it, hold it," I urge. "Then just breathe out."

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back as the smoke flows out of her cute little nostrils. When all the smoke is expelled she opens her eyes and gives me that quick smile she always does when she can't keep a straight face.

"Nice," she says. A sweep of hair falls forward over her face, obscuring her eye. I take my hands off her shoulders.

She has no more problems inhaling, and we pass the pipe back and forth, smoking in silence until the bowl is empty. Already the world is glazing over, and there is a glass-like sparkle to the green leaves around us and the dappled sunlight breaking down through the pine canopy overhead.

"This is nice," Carly says, hands in her pockets again, looking around at the branches and leaves as if they've suddenly transformed into a new world. She takes a sip of her smoothie. "Mmm. Yummy."

I take a sip of mine to see, and damn, she's right, it's tastes great.

I slip my pipe into my pocket and lead us out of the woods. We wander aimlessly around the park for a while, avoiding the walking trails so that no citizens will see our red eyes and probably dazed expressions. At the empty playground I make her spin me on the merry-go-round for a few minutes, until kids and their parents start showing up. We walk on, taking in sights and the spring air, until the shadows grow longer and the sunlight grows dustier in the late afternoon. We end up back at the oak tree where I parked my truck, where we both collapse on the ground and watch the Mexican kids play soccer a few hundred yards away.

After a long silence, Carly says, "I can't draw."

"I know."

"I can't play guitar all that well, either. Mandolin, a little bit."

"I know that, too. So?"

She takes a deep breath. She's sitting Indian-style, hunched over, her fingers picking at blades of grass. "So what am I going to do?"

I consider this for a minute. I'm leaning back, with my arms holding me up, my hands on the warm earth. "I don't know if I'm the person to tell you that."

She makes a short noise - it could be a scoff or a laugh or anything. "Just tell me, Sam. You're always so sure of everything."

I lean forward and flick an ant off my pinkie. "Maybe it just seems that way."

Just then some kid walks up to us from out of the parking lot, a nerdy looking boy about 12 with glasses and braces and spiky hair.

"Hey, you guys are Carly and Sam, right? From iCarly?"

"That's us," Carly and I chorus.

"That's so cool!" the boy says, practically jumping off the ground. "Can I get you guys' autographs?"

"Got a pen?" Carly says.

The boy whips an ink pen out of his back pocket, and a folded up piece of notebook paper from his front. I sign my name, then pass it over to Carly.

"What's your name?" Carly asks him.

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy," she repeats, and writes some personalized little note, then hands it back to him with a smile.

"Thanks," he says. "Hey, are you guys ever going to do iCarly again? I really watching it."

"Maybe," Carly says. "We're working on something, but it might take a few more months. Just keep checking on the Internet for news."

"Awesome!" Jimmy says. He looks out at the parking lot, where his parents are shouting his name. "Well hey, I gotta go, but it's great meeting you guys! Thanks!"

I wink at him and make a little pistol with my thumb and forefinger. Carly tells him, "Thanks, Jimmy; nice meeting you."

He runs off, and I love Carly even more for her little lie.

I lay back on the warm earth and look up at the foliage overhead shaking in a sudden gust of wind, and at the little shifting dots of sunlight breaking through the screen of leaves.

"Part of me really wanted the show to end," Carly says. She's still sitting up, absently watching the soccer players, picking blades of grass apart, her hair whipping around in the wind.

"What? Why?"

She shakes her head, clears loose strands of hair from her eyes. "You know the kids at school - there's the stoners, the Christians, the gay kids, the punk rockers and goths and everything else. And it's like, their whole lives and sense of themselves are centered around that one thing, and I guess I was afraid I would always be just the 'iCarly girl.' And I thought I didn't want that, but I didn't realize that there are things inside of me that need some way to get out. And I don't know how to get them out."

I reach over and snag her hand and weave my fingers around hers.

"And I miss Freddie, and I miss you coming over every day, and I miss all of us always being together and having crazy adventures," she continues. "It was like some Golden Age, and now it's over and everything has changed."

I squeeze her hand. "It's okay if things change. There's still us."

She sniffs, wipes something away from her eye. "Until we drift away."


	4. Chapter 4

I drove us back to Carly's apartment as the sun was going down and the city was lighting up. We had come down, so we weren't acting weird around Spencer, but we still had the munchies. We talked him into making spaghetti tacos for us, and man, they were great. The flavors were just layered so precisely.

Now it's late at night, and Carly and I are sitting on the floor of her bedroom, flipping through the channels on her little 13" TV that she keeps up here. We're in the dark, leaning against her bed, stripped down to our sleeping clothes - nylon shorts and tank tops.

We watch a few minutes of some terrible movie on the Science Fiction Channel, something about a mutated giant fish that eats college kids during Spring Break. When the commercial comes on, Carly says, "I wonder if that kid today noticed we were high."

"Eh, he's probably too young to have noticed. I mean, I doubt he recognized the signs."

She draws her knees up to her body, like maybe she is cold. "I just wouldn't want the word to get out. I mean, I still forget about the whole 'being famous' thing. I guess we both still are, kind of."

"Hey, as long as people are still asking for autographs..." I trail off.

She rests her chin on her knees and hums a few bars of some tune I can't place. "What did we do before iCarly?"

"What do you mean?"

"We were friends for years before we started doing the show."

"And we'll be friends for years after," I reassure her.

She smiles. "Even if we just grow up to be totally normal and boring and get jobs as office drones or real estate agents?"

"Hey, you're the intellectual. I'll probably just go to work at the fish canning factory downtown after I graduate high school."

"You're too pretty for that," she says quietly.

I scoff. I suppose 'psss' is an appropriate scoffing noise.

"You are," she insists.

Now I draw my knees up close to my body to fight the sudden chill that spreads across my skin even as a warmth fires up low in my stomach.

"You are," she repeats softly. "You know, for a long time I didn't think I was good enough to be your friend."

"_You_ didn't think you were good enough for _me_?" This astounds me, that the smartest, sweetest, prettiest girl I know, who rescued me from white trashery and juvenile delinquency, thought she wasn't good enough to be friends with Sam Puckett, the spawn of criminals and low lives and junkies and thieves.

"I thought I was all gross and weird looking," she says. "Especially when I was little. I looked like a frog or something."

"Don't ever say that," I tell her, turning to her, fighting the fluttering of my heart and the tightness in my throat and the little shivers I can't control. "You're beautiful."

I can barely read her expression through the dim glow of the TV. The colors shift across her face, and I can't tell if she's going to laugh or cry. She picks the remote control up off the floor beside her and turns the TV off. We sit in total darkness.

"So we're two beautiful girls," she says. "What are we going to do with our lives?"

I shrug, even though I know she can't see me. "What do you love the most?"

Silence for a long time.

"Carly?"

"Come over here, Sam."

And it's just a few feet of dark space, but it seems to take forever for me to feel my way across the carpet. I move until I feel our heat mingling in the short distance between our bodies; and I can sense her hesitation, her final moment of doubt, but then her hand is on the curve where my neck and shoulder meet, and there is the smell of toothpaste and strawberry lip gloss as her lips graze mine.

I kiss her back, and it is soft, just our two mouths tasting each other. Her hands are on me, cold at first but quickly warming as they glide over my skin. She shifts her body forward until she's practically sitting on my thigh, and runs her hands under my tank top, counting my ribs, sliding her hands around to the back, her palms flat against each side of my spine, moving up until I realize she's taking my shirt off. I let her do it, then my fingers go to the hemline of her shirt, and she raises her arms to let my strip it up and off. I toss the shirt aside and my mouth goes to her breasts. Her hands are twisting knots in my hair as she moans deep and slow, and I have to do this - I have to give her this pleasure; I have to let her know she is beautiful inside and out.

But oh, now she is taking charge, guiding my body to the floor, the carpet on my back, her sylph like body on top of me now, light as a piece of paper. My fingers dance along her spine while hers slip under the waistband of my shorts and explore.

"Your hair is so soft," she whispers against my ear as her fingers work through my pubes, work lower, the pad of her index finger now teasing at my entrance, sliding up and down with the barest touch. Waves of pleasure pulse out from my center, to my hips, down my legs, up my spine. My arms tighten around her, and the warmth of her breasts and tummy and legs burn against my body. I kiss the hollow spot under her ear.

And now somehow she has worked my shorts down and wiggled out of her own and locked her body against mine, our warmth and wetness intermingling. She is rocking back and forth in an easy, unhurried rhythm, rubbing her clit against mine. The slender muscles along her back are so tense. She lets our short, ragged moans. She draws her head up and opens her eyes and looks at me, and even in the dim light that is seeping in through the window I can tell there is no fear or doubt or uncertainty. There is only love. There is only this moment.

My left hand is on her lower back, and my right hand is grabbing fistfuls of carpet beside me, and I know that everything has changed.

And so we both continue to moan in the darkness and rock against each other; and the one thing I am sure of is that we both will eventually find IT, whatever IT is, that thing we both need to make our lives complete. We'll figure it out and everything will work out right.

And I know that things always change, but you live through that stuff anyway.


End file.
